The City of Vice
by Nosferatu5
Summary: The Sin City. The City of Evil. The city where madmen like Pastor Richards and Ricardo Diaz could live freely. A unique place. Thomas Vercetti has been set loose here. This bodes nothing good for the citizens...
1. Meeting in Progress

1. Meeting in Progress

Sonny Forelli took a drag on his Cuban cigar. Everything was finally working out the way he needed it to.

"So, you see? We'll set the cops on the fucking phony, next thing he'll know – the mayor's terriers are all over him waving the "You got busted for murder!" chitties. We won't waste our men. We just got out of that, huh, scrape with the Yardies. Maybe the next time we'll just try to ally with the Purple Nines, but I have a very certain feeling that this will be all for the bastards."

Another occupant of the room coughed somberly and dryly. He was a forty-year-old with asthma and a dislike for blood, which he received after a major turf war with the Colombian Cartel broke out in Shoreside Vale and he was the initiator and a performer of one too many drive-bys. On one fateful night, as he and a couple more gangsters were preparing for one more shooting session, the vehicle was blown up by the rivals with the others inside it. At that moment, he was smoking his last pack of cigarettes in a nearby alley, his hands sweating with horror at what might happen – and what did. It was a very fortunate coincidence that he has taken his sub-machine gun from the car, and at very last he has actually managed to fight his way out of the, as it turned out, Yakuza ambush.

As those thoughts continued going vaguely through the asthmatic's head, Sonny continued:

"...Yeah, and if he knows what's good for him, he will rig it, I guarantee you people."

Yet another inhabitant of the room interrupted the Mafiosi:  
"Yes, but Sonny, we still have the problem with the Diablos."

"Damn it, I know. Will you stop pissing me off? At least, I am trying to decide what to do," replied Sonny. "Quite unlike you."

The asthmatic suddenly bolted upright.

"Er, er, boss, Tommy Vercetti is out of prison early, um, for fine conduct! I accidentally forgot to inform you about it, boss!"

For a moment the Mafiosi's face was a mask of rage. However, that lasted only a moment, before his expression became completely cold and featureless again.

"Are you quite serious?"  
"Yes, boss."

Sonny took another drag. The day was turning out to be worse than he has imagined.

"Tommy Vercetti... Huh! Shit," said the gangster. "Didn't think they'd ever let him out."

"He kept his head down, helps people forget," explained the asthmatic.

Sonny shook his head, and slammed his fist on the table.

"People will remember soon enough, when they see him walking down the streets of their neighborhoods," he said. "It will be bad for business."

The asthmatic has just noticed the corpse on the hook in the freezing-room and felt like being sick. Very much like being sick, in fact.

"Well, what are we gonna do, Sonny?" asked the interrupter.

"We treat him like an old friend and keep him busy out of town. OK?" Sonny started to clear the matters up. "We been talking about expanding down South, right? Vice City is twenty-four carat gold these days. The Colombians, the Mexicans, hell, even those Cuban refugees are cutting themselves a piece of some nice action."

"But it's all drugs, Sonny," raised his voice the asthmatic. "None of the families will touch that shit!"

"Times are changing.The families can't keep their backs turned while our enemies reap the rewards. So, we send someone down to do the dirty work for us... And cut ourselves a nice quiet slice. OK?"

"Yes, yes, but..."

Sonny waved him into silence.

"Who's our contact down there?"  
"Ken Rosenberg, schmuck of a lawyer," the asthmatic mumbled miserably. "How's he gonna hold Vercetti's leash?"

"We don't need him to. We just set him loose in Vice City; we give him a little cash to get started. OK?" explained the Mafiosi. "Give it a few months. Then we go down, pay him a little visit, right? See how he's doing. All perfectly logical, people. All perfectly logical."

"Can we go already, boss?"

"Yes, all right. Go."

The three gangsters walked out of the back room of the Saint Mark's Bistro into its kitchen. They continued their way up the stairs and into the café area itself, and out the door.


	2. Point Insertion

As Thomas Vercetti walked out of the Escobar International Airport with his two companions with suitcases, he felt curiously lightheaded. Sonny Forelli has set him loose in a city with a million opportunities for a guy like him, a 35-year-old man with a large experience as a Mafia hitman, and not for just any self-proclaimed family, but the Forellis! Was there any doubt that he and the city matched perfectly? And the climate, the wave of heat that has almost knocked Tommy over as he passed the metal detectors... Overall, he was going to _enjoy _this.

An ages-old white Admiral, manufactured in Liberty City, as Tommy noticed with pride, pulled over. An excited middle-aged man in glasses and a purple suit jumped out of it and started yelling something to the gangsters:

"Hey, hey, guys! It's, uh, Ken Rosenberg here! Hey! Heh, heh, hey, great, hey!"

What a schmuck, Tommy noted in disgust. And he is supposed to help us? How did he get in the favor of Forellis, anyway?

Ken continued yelling out.

"Well, uh, I'm gonna drive you guys to the meet, okay? Now, I've talked to the suppliers and they are very, huh-ha, keen to start a business relationship, so, uh, if all goes well, we should, uh, be doing very nicely for ourselves, which is, y'know... good..."

Rosenberg and the others entered the Admiral.

They probably have a file on him in the local PD, a mile long, thought Tommy. Hm, I doubt it's like that with those "Suppliers" – they yell and alert the whole city about a drug deal less, they are probably stealthier... Meh, probably just like in Liberty City. But at least there nobody thought they could make me go into drug dealing. Now, for some reason, they do.

"Okay, so. They're brothers, okay," Ken rambled on, driving shakily. "One operates the uh, the business, and the other one does the flying. Now they operate out of Mexico, no, no, no, wait... They own a farm in Panama. Okay, all right, listen - you guys, when we get there should I stay in the car, or do you guys want me to come in with you guys?"

The man has suffered enough, Tommy decided. His whole life, probably.

"No. Stay in the car."

The lawyer seemingly ignored him.

"You know what, I thought about it, I'm gonna watch the car."

They drove in silence for a while.

"So, h-h-how are things in L-L-Liberty City now, uh, how are they?" Rosenberg tried to start a conversation.  
Thomas gulped.

"Don't know. I've been in prison for the last fifteen years. I just came out and got a phone call from some mafiosi that I have to board a plane to Vice City in the airport and do some drug deal. No idea what I'll have to do after that."

They rode in silence some more.

"Um, um, so, what did you do before the jail sentence?"

"I was a Mafia hitman. Not a bad job, but... Excruciating. Really sucks you dry."

The Admiral veered between heavy traffic of all existing dock areas, mostly vans and giant transporters, and lunged into a small, very unnoticeable two-meter crack between two soot-covered buildings onto a little, barren piece of land of gray land completely devoid of anything except a drain, probably leading a couple of feet south and into the sea, some crates of unknown origin and with very questionable contents, and rare patches of cattail, forced out of its native swamps once covering the place Vice City stood into those polluted, diseased, and completely forgotten-about places.

Tommy tore his eyes from the exteriors of the surrounding warehouses as a rumbling sound approached. A lightly-built black helicopter – what were they called again? When Tommy went to jail the company only started developing... Ah yes, Mavericks... – landed. Ken Rosenberg rotated his worried, rodent face to the gangsters in the back seat:

"Ok, that's them in the chopper. All right, here's the deal. They want a straight exchange on open ground. All right?"  
Tommy opened his door of the car and dropped out of it. His companions from Liberty City saw it as a signal to do the same. He stared at them blankly.

"Ok. Stay tight, let's go." He walked up to Rosenberg's window. "All right. Take it easy, now."

"I'm right here. The car's running, baby!" Ken yelped anxiously.

Meanwhile, the coke dealer has left the helicopter. He was medium-built, about as tall as Tommy, and had an offensively orange shirt. In his hands he had two large suitcases filled with something heavy, as he walked with a limp.

"Got it?" Tommy asked.

"100 pure grade-A Colombian, my friend," answered the dealer with a thick Colombian accent. "The greens?"

Tommy's companions opened their two suitcases and showed the contents.

"Tens and twenties...used."

"I think we have a deal, my friend. HA-HA!" The dealer laughed horribly.

...And then the air was thick with lead of the flying bullets. Right before Thomas's eyes three people, all holding heavy weaponry of some sort and wearing black clothes that also covered their faces, strafed out of the boxes, shooting everyone in sight...

...The dealers fell down to the ground, blood streaming out of the wounds on every body, the suitcases full of almost priceless "stuff" lay abandoned, but Tommy did not care as he dived into the back seat of the Admiral and yelled to Ken:  
"Go on, get out of here! Drive!"  
Ken hesitated. "Let me see it."

Now that the others were dead, the assassins concentrated their fire on the survivors. A few bullets have already hit the car.

"Oh shit!"

The car sped off, leaving the dead bodies, the assassins, the millions of dollars, and the kilograms of cocaine.

* * *

As the car was on a bridge, realization finally hit Ken. 

"Screwed! We're screwed!" He screamed. "This is so typical. I poke my head out of the gutter for one freakin' second, and fate shovels shit in my face!"

"Well, screw you!" Tommy yelled. "Shut your face and quit complaining! You're alive, aren't ya?" The Admiral passed a hospital. "Drop me right up here. Go dump the car, then go get some sleep. I'll drop by your office tomorrow and we can start sorting this mess out."

"OK, that's a good idea, I'll get some sleep. What are you gonna do?"

"Make my way back to my hotel, clear my head, and figure this crap out."

"OK."  
The car stopped in an alley beside a building. Ken sprinted out of it, clutching his head, and ran into the door.

Tommy clenched his seat and tried to think.

Now to just figure everything out, he thought. Now to just figure everything out...


	3. An do not read

Very sorry about this. I do not know how this happened.


End file.
